Nera
“How’s that work of yours going? Anything interesting happened?” The words are spoken between bites, and it’s my dad’s usual easygoing tone, but Nuncio Veronese, the don of Boston Cosa Nostra, never says or does anything without a reason.
A piece of broccoli almost gets lodged in my throat, because for a split second, I think he might have somehow found out about my long-haired stranger from last week.
“Um . . . It’s great, Dad.” I swallow. “Nope. Just the same old, you know. Oh, but a boy did bring in a tarantula the other day.”
“Dear God.” He sighs then turns to my sister who’s sitting on the other side of the table, “Zara, please pass me the bread.”
My sister moves the glass bowl closer to him and continues eating in silence. She is always so quiet that, sometimes, I forget sh
